“Every pitcher expects a pitcher to bunt.”
“So?”
“So don’t bunt!” Ethan pointed to home plate, and I took his place on deck. “I gotta go.”
“We’re good, right?”
“Yeah, we’re good. Brothers from different mothers.”
I laughed and fired off a round of practice swings on deck. Then I positioned myself as if I was up at bat. When the Hammerheads pitcher threw his first ball, I swung.
Ethan swung at the next pitch and made contact. The ball rocketed over the second baseman and deep into the outfield, where the center fielder chased it down at the wall. Thank you, Ethan, was all I could think, and then the ball dipped down and rebounded off the wall and into play. Ethan was forced to hold up at third, but he had got a run in. The game was tied, and the spotlight turned on me as he became the go-ahead, game-winning run.
I was hoping the Hammerheads would walk me, but stepping into the batter’s box, I quickly found out that they didn’t want to waste an easy out. The first pitch came inside and fast, forcing me away from the plate.
The umpire called a strike.
I adjusted my helmet and ran through my options. Despite the warning pitch to back off, I could crowd the plate, hope to get hit and take a bruiser for the team. That would be an easy way onto base.
Back at the mound, the pitcher did a good job of covering up his grip. Don’t go down looking, I told myself, go down swinging. The next pitch whipped toward me, and I only had a blurred look at its approach. I started my swing and then tried to adjust it as the ball swerved right. Pushing right through it, arms extended, I heard the echo of the ball in the catcher’s mitt.
“Strike two!”
I looked back to confirm I had missed the ball. I exchanged a look with Ethan. He pointed to his right knee and lifted it off the ground. Then he planted it firmly down and gave me a thumbs-up. It took me a second, but I figured out he was telling me not to raise my foot off the ground when I swung.
With me in the batter’s box and down two in the count, the Hammerheads pitcher must have known he owned the situation. I was only a hiccup on his way to getting his team into extra innings. I figured he wouldn’t waste a ball on me when he could get me down in three. He started his windup, and I pushed the heels of my feet into the soft dirt. Not wanting to swing for the fences, I started my back rotation early. Eyeballing the location and speed of the ball, I simply wanted to get my bat on it. The pitch started a right-to-left movement. I only knew one thing—every batter’s got a weak spot. It was my job to find my own. It must’ve been on the inside, because that was where he was heading again.
The pitch zipped in front of the plate, and I sped up my rotation—back to front.
Feet firmly down, my elbows brought my hands in and I pushed the bat across the plate to where the ball was. Expecting to hear a loud crack, I heard what sounded more like a thud. I’d made contact, but it took me a moment to find out where I’d sent the ball. It arched lazily into the air and drooped well behind the first baseman.
I heard the coach shout, “Run!” and I dropped the bat and took off. On my way to first, I spotted Claire. I did a quick check over my left shoulder and saw Ethan cross home plate as the go-ahead, game-winning run. The Hurricanes started to pour out of the dugout. I approached first base at top speed and saw a girl who was definitely Amanda standing next to Claire. I hit the base and blew past it, veering off the field toward her. I stopped at the chain-link fence separating us. It took them a second to realize it was me. I jumped the fence and pulled off my helmet. Amanda stepped forward.
She looked different, yet her eyes were the same. There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
Claire broke it. “Awkward.”
I had spent all this time looking for her, and now I didn’t know what to say.
“So how are you?” Amanda asked. “That’s a stupid question, right?”
“No. I’m okay.”
She let out a short, nervous laugh. “I can’t believe you’re standing in front of me.”
She hugged me as loud cheers exploded like fireworks behind us.
“So you got the postcard. You were always the only one who could read my handwriting,” I said.
“Yeah, I had no idea what it said!” Claire smiled.
“I always felt bad that we never had the chance to say goodbye,” said Amanda. “Everybody told me not to call you. The postcard was my way of letting you know I had moved, and that I was doing okay. It took me two years to finally send it because I kept coming up with reasons not to bother you. “
“It’s been tough. When I saw the postcard, I knew it was from you.”
“We shouldn’t have let them split us up. We should have tried to stay together. Looking back, it’s easy to—” Amanda stopped. “I’m glad you found me. I hear you were persistent.”
“Oh, yeah,” Claire said. “He was a total pain.”
Amanda laughed.
“So where were you?” I asked.
“Visiting a friend in Los Angeles,” said Amanda.
“And is your dad okay with you being here?” I asked.
“Probably not. I bounced around in the system before the Millers adopted me. When you showed up at our house, Dad… Bob…was worried that you were there to take me away. My adoptive parents have always been worried about that.”
I nodded.
“But eventually they’ll see that my having a relationship with you isn’t their decision.” She paused. “Were you adopted?”
“No.”
“So you’re living in the same foster home?” Amanda paused again, realizing that the answer to her question was obvious.
“Who’s your girlfriend?” Claire asked.
“Jessie’s a friend. Someone I met out here who helped me find Amanda.”
“There he is!” someone shouted.
I turned around to see Ethan and Davis.
“This her?” Ethan asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Congrats!” He turned to Amanda.
“I can totally tell you’re brother and sister. Do you mind if we borrow him? We’ll have him back in five minutes.” Ethan and Davis propped me up on their shoulders and led me to the third-base line, where the Hurricanes were still celebrating.
chapter twenty
After I found Amanda, the stress in my life disappeared. All of a sudden, I wasn’t washing dishes to support my search for her. I was doing it because it gave me money to save toward my future. On my breaks with Jessie, we talked about all sorts of things— normal things. It was as if the clouds had opened up to clear skies, and my relationship with Jessie grew and changed. It felt great to hold her hand.
“Did you speak to your foster parents yet?” Jessie asked.
“This morning. They want the best for me. I’m starting to realize how lucky I’ve been to have them. Their friends said I can stay on with them in Hermosa for my last year of high school.”
She took her eyes off the door and faced me. “That’s awesome! I’m so excited! It’s going to be a great year.”
“I’m more anxious about that surfing lesson.”
“Stop it! You’ll be fine.” Jessie stepped closer to me, our hands still together. “I’m so happy you don’t have to leave.”
I leaned in for a kiss but was interrupted.
Ethan high-fived me and rolled it into a short hug. “So, Jessie, we going to show this boy the real Cali?”
“You bet.” She laughed. “Soon he’ll be wearing flip-flops and checking the surf report.”
Ethan moved toward his Jeep. “So, we ready for this?”
I looked at them both. “I think it’s time.”
Redondo Beach appeared and then disappeared as I bobbed up and down in the midday sun. My hands gripped the surfboard as the cold water attacked my legs. I could barely feel them anymore. I wished I was in a head-to-toe wetsuit. “How come I’m the only one who can’t do this?” I looked to my left, trying not to tip m
yself over. Jessie, Ethan, Claire and Amanda were all on surfboards.
“You can do this,” Amanda said.
“Did you see my last two wipeouts? And I wasn’t even standing!”
She tried not to laugh. Everyone tried not to laugh.
“The problem,” Amanda said from her board, “is that they are all pros. I’m far from perfect, and not nearly as good as them. So try it my way.”
I released one hand from the board and used it to paddle closer to her.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Okay,” I said.
“I’m just going to tell you what I do when I surf. So lie flat on the board again.”
I got down on my stomach like her.
“His hands are gonna make him tip,” Ethan said.
Claire, Jessie and Amanda shot him a look.
He shrugged. “Sorry. Only trying to help.”
Amanda continued. “Take your hands off the rails of the board and put them under your chest, flat on the board so your thumbs touch.”
“Because it’s more stable,” Ethan said, proving his point.
“Now”—Amanda demonstrated—“do a push-up.”
I pushed up with my arms and legs and found myself in an uncomfortable position, like a dog trying to surf.
“Now jump up!” she said.
I propped myself up awkwardly, nearly tipping the board. “I’m up. Now what?”
“Well,” Amanda said, “you’ve got to do this closer to the takeoff zone. You know— where the waves are.”
Ethan appeared behind my board and started to push me. “Don’t worry about it. I have you covered. You should be doing this into the wave, but it’s good enough for now.”
My goal was not to fall.
“Catch the wave when you feel it moving under you. Hit it too early, and you’ll miss it. But hit it too late, and you’ll wipe out,” said Amanda.
I looked over at her. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Okay, here comes a wave,” she said.
I kept my hands out like I was on a tightwire.
Ethan gave me a big push, and I glanced back to see white water rolling toward me.
The girls shouted out that I could do it.
Ethan offered one last word of wisdom. “It’s like being at bat. Bend your legs!”
Getting down lower on the board seemed to help. The water rushed around me, and somehow I was still standing. I was doing the impossible. I stayed balanced and, with the girls applauding and hollering behind me, I rode my wave toward the beach.
Author’s Note
When I came up with the initial idea for this book, I spoke with staff at lots of foster-care agencies in California and was surprised to find that, despite agency policy or a case worker’s best efforts, siblings are often permanently separated. Then my idea started to morph, and I wondered how frustrating it would be to be separated from my sister and have no way of reconnecting with her, constantly feeling like a piece of me was missing.
Baseball was the perfect vehicle for the story, and California was the perfect venue. It’s one of my favorite places in the world and is known as the baseball factory of the United States, producing many talented players. As much as I like baseball and enjoy playing it, my real knowledge about baseball comes from conversations with my grandmother, who was a real expert. The Blue Jays were her team of choice, and we shared many in-depth conversations about the sport over the years. By combining her passion for baseball and mine for the mystery genre, I think I’ve got a book that my grandmother would be proud of!
Acknowledgments
My first big thank-you goes to Leslie Bootle at Orca. We met at the Ontario Library Super Conference, and without her, Hurricane Heat never would have happened. Thanks for the vote of confidence! Thank you to my editor, Christi Howes, whose encouragement, insightful comments and incredible eye for detail were invaluable. Thank you to Sarah Harvey for adding finishing touches and seeing my book to production, and to my agent, Lynn Bennett, whose guidance, encouragement and enthusiasm for this novel helped motivate me.
This book would not have been possible without research. I wish to thank the USA Premier Baseball League for its help with the nitty-gritty ins and outs of the league. To the Los Angeles County Department of Children and Family Services, the National Foster Parent Association and the Alliance for Children’s Rights, thank you for your patience as I bombarded you with countless questions. I have newfound appreciation for the incredible work you do each and every day. Finally, I wish to thank my family for their love and support and for allowing me to follow my passion and write every day.
Steven Barwin is a writer and teacher in Toronto, Ontario. He’s written for sports, action and dramatic television shows, and has developed and written interactive DVD games. His previous novels have tackled the world of team sports, bullying and burnout. Hurricane Heat is his first novel in the Orca Sports series. For more information, visit www.stevenbarwin.com
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